Despondency
by Begonias
Summary: The days we stay in Palo Alto are the worst. Sam in mourning.


**A/N: **Hey, guys. This is officially the longest one-shot I have ever written. Also, I did it in first person. In Dean's point of view. Really, it's just me trying to challenge myself. It's just so hard for me to get Dean's voice. Please give me some feedback on how I did. Even if I failed miserably.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them, they own me. Pardon typos. I did my best.

**Summary: **The days we stay in Palo Alto are the worst. Sam in mourning.

* * *

**"Despondency"**

** by Begonias**

* * *

_Day one. November 3__rd__, 2005._

My brother's a tough son of a bitch, he really is. He manages to keep things together, take care of things. The kid knows what he wants and goes for it.

And I can tell he's hurting.

And that's understandable. I would be too if I watched my girlfriend get burned alive on the ceiling. Over my own bed.

But Sam hasn't done anything. Hasn't done _anything. _And that's what's worrying me.

He lays in the creaky motel bed, watching TV shows, just staring at the screen and not paying attention to anything else. And I don't think he's really watching it. I can tell by the way his forehead is creased that he's too far gone into his own thoughts. Probably trying to make sense of it all, find some answers.

If only I had some to give.

I expected Sam to cry, to punch someone or something, maybe even me because I'm the one who took him away from her in the first place.

Christ, if I could take it all back…I never would have went to Stanford in the first place. I'd have gone to look for Dad myself.

I think the lingering silence is worse than what it would be like if he were to start crying. Because then at least I would be able to comfort him, say, "It's okay, Sammy," just as I did when he would cry as a little kid. But he's not opening himself up to conversation, so what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

I sit on my bed, adjacent to his, and stare at him. His eyes are dull, almost emotionless, yet he still looks like the most miserable bastard on the face of the earth. His head in his hands, he just sits there.

His phone rings suddenly, the shrill tone snapping us both out of our trances. Sam moves to grab it.

"Hello?"

That's pretty much the first thing he's said since I dragged him out of that building.

"Yeah," he says, lifelessly. "Thanks…Yeah…Thank you…I'm okay."

It's weird to hear my kid brother so monotone, so devoid of emotions. I remember the hyper little kid he used to be, and I can't believe I'm staring at the same person.

Eventually, he hangs up. "Who was that?" I can't help but ask, mostly just to get the kid to talk to me.

He sags weakly onto his pillow. It looks like that phone call sucked out all his energy. He doesn't say anything.

"Come on, man," I plead, "talk to me."

"It was…" He swallows, looking as close to tears as I've ever seen him. "It was Vincent. He was just calling to say sorry. _Sorry._"

Sam buries himself in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Right then and there I want to punch this Vincent guy. Why would he say something like that? _I'm sorry? _Is he kidding?

"Sam, you gotta talk to me, man."

"About what?" he says as he abruptly stands up. His eyes are watering.

"You know what, Sammy." I stand too, walking over to him.

He profusely wipes at his eyes, and I hope he knows he can cry in front of me because I won't judge him for that, or call him a little bitch, or tease him for acting like a girl. Jesus. The love of his life was killed right before his very eyes.

His hands cover his face.

"Come on, Sammy," I say quietly. It's like I'm afraid that if I talk too loud I'll break him. Which I know is stupid, but I take precaution. Especially because I'm the worst person to go to for comfort. But Sam needs me to be strong right now.

"I didn't protect her," he chokes out. "I should have been there. I should have _been there_!"

I hug him then, fast and tight, because I feel like it's the only thing to do. I think I needed a hug as much as he did right then. "Hey, man," I tell him, gripping his shoulders tightly, "you couldn't have known. You didn't have any idea."

He looks like he's going to say something but he doesn't. And I don't push it. I finally got him to talk a little bit and I count that as progress.

* * *

_Day two. November 4__th__, 2005._

Sam has been wearing the same clothes he has since that night.

I notice then (and I'm surprised it took me this long) that Sam has no clothes. Has no possessions. They must have all burned in the fire.

I shake my head. That poor bastard.

He's still sleeping (though I don't think very well) which I count as a miracle because he hasn't slept more than two hours since the fire. And he's gonna end up making himself collapse if he doesn't get more rest soon.

Sammy startles awake all of a sudden, jolting out of what I'm sure is a nightmare.

"Are you okay?" I ask lamely.

"You shouldn't have let me fall asleep." His voice sounds like there's water in his lungs, choking him.

I go into big brother mode. "You need to sleep, Sam."

"I keep seeing her," he tells me. "It's messing with my head."

"Listen, man…" I scratch my ear, wondering how to broach this subject. "We, uh, we should probably go shopping to…ya know…I mean, all of your clothes…"

"I know. They're unsalvageable. I mean…" He shakes his head and rubs his red-rimmed eyes.

"Do you…" I swallow, wishing it wasn't so goddamn hard to talk to my brother right now. "Do you wanna go get some new clothes today?"

He bites his lip and does that little half smile thing he does whenever he's about to cry. I know my kid brother too well. "Yeah," he says, looking down. "I mean, I guess that's a good idea. I, uh…" he trails off as he wipes his eyes. "I'm gonna need a suit, too. For the, uh…"

_Funeral. _Oh, shit, I haven't thought about that. I guess my mind has only been on Sammy radar for the last few days and I've been oblivious to everything else. "Okay," I say, nodding vigorously, because I don't want him to finish the sentence. I don't want him to say the word "funeral" because then it will be _really _real for him.

"Uh, when is that anyway?" I try to keep my tone light. Subtlety ain't my strong suit.

"Friday." He swallows and looks up at me, his eyes shining. He's got those damn puppy dog eyes. "I, uh, I got a call from Jessica's mom about it." He bites his lip hard.

My eyebrows furrow. I don't remember him getting a call about that, but then again, he's been getting a lot of calls lately, from friends and classmates at Stanford. So many, in fact, that I made him turn off his phone. The calls weren't doing anything except making him more upset.

"So…when are we going?"

"Whenever, man. But you need a shower." He _still _has _ash _on his face from the blazes of the fire. I haven't had the heart to tell him to shower, he's just been too consumed in his grief. I didn't really care, either. "You can wear some of my clothes out. I mean, the jeans might be too short, but…the shirt'll be fine."

"Thanks," he says. His voice is still too dull, too bland.

He showers, and I just sit there, trying to think of a way I could possibly make this better.

The jeans aren't too short, so he doesn't look like a dork, and so it's fine for now. He still needs clothes, though. He can't be wearing mine all the time. I barely have enough for myself.

I don't really clothes shop that often, surprisingly. You think that we would, especially after our clothes have been ripped and bloodied on hunts, but we usually don't shop much.

Sam stays quiet the whole drive there, but he looks a lot damn better than he did before he took a shower. I mean, he still looks shitty, and awful, but better. See, I'm an optimist sometimes.

We pick up some jeans at Old Navy (or wherever the fuck we went; it could have been a goddamn Goodwill for all I know...I couldn't bring myself to pay attention), and he doesn't even seem to give a shit about anything. Really, he just walks around like he's a zombie and I don't even think he notices it. He doesn't try anything on, either, and I just want to make sure everything fits him. I'm such a mother hen.

I then take him to this cheap suit shop, where we rent ourselves some suits. I tell the guy it's for a funeral and I see Sam tense in my peripheral vision.

It takes a long time because the guy has to measure us and fit us both for suits, and Sam is too engrossed in his thoughts to be cooperating well.

The guy seems to be kind of annoyed by this, which makes me want to rip his lungs out because he has absolutely no idea what Sam is going through. So when Sam isn't paying attention, I whisper to the worker guy, "It was his girlfriend," _you prick, _I add in my head, and he nods sympathetically.

We also pick up some nicer clothes to wear, because I found out Thursday is the wake (Sam told me this in his sleep-deprived haze).

We drive home in silence.

* * *

_Day three. November 5__th__, 2005._

Money has been getting tight.

"Sam, I'm gonna go get some money playin' pool tonight. You wanna come?"

He straightens himself up in his chair. He's already been poring over Dad's journal about where he could possibly be. I think it's just so he can distract himself.

"No thanks," he grunts, not looking up.

"Come on, Sam. You need to get out."

He looks up at me with a small smile. "I really don't."

"It would be good for you."

He rolls his eyes, which I think is a good sign. Two days ago he was so despondent he wouldn't even look at me. Now he's making his way back to bitchy little brother.

"I'm fine, Dean. Really, you don't have to keep…" He shakes his head but doesn't finish his sentence.

"But you're not fine, man. I mean, look at you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's not what I meant."

"Whatever. I just don't want to go out."

"Fine," I finally say. "That's fine, Sammy. I'm just worried about you."

He puts his head in his hands. He nods.

I finally go, breathing in the scent of leather on my jacket and feeling my car's engine rumble.

I'm grateful for a reason to get away, and I know how crappy that sounds. It ain't my brother's fault that he's going through everything he's been through. But I do need a night out.

In the bar called Smokey's, I chat up a blonde girl named Susie, drink a little, play a few rounds of poker. Play some pool. Dominate. And leave happy.

The sense of foreboding comes halfway on the drive home.

I just hate seeing him like this.

It's so hard, man.

I call Dad. Disconnected. I want to tell him everything, so I hang up and think: _Dad, your son is experiencing the exact same thing you did when you were younger. And I guess you're just too "busy" to even give us a call back. It's just really tearing him up, Dad. It's not fair that something like this happened to him. He's a good kid, he don't deserve this. I guess you're just in Colorado right now, working a case and not giving two shits about your own sons. _

I run my hand over my face. Touch the amulet.

I stop and pick up some burgers on the way home, because I can't remember the last time Sam really ate something.

Sam is talking on the phone when I get back, even though I pretty much told him not to answer it and to leave it off.

"I know…It…Yeah…No, I know…Thank you…I'm with my brother…Friday…" He sniffles. "It's on Friday."

"I've got food!" I joyously proclaim, letting Sam be aware of my presence. He hangs up the phone. "Sam, what are you doin' on the phone?"

"Answering people's calls," he grunts, to which I roll my eyes. "I can't stand knowing people are calling me and only going to voicemail."

He looks even more miserable than he did when I left him. "You shouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Answer them."

"Well, I gotta let people know that I didn't just drop off the face of the earth."

"Well?" I ask. "What have you been telling people?"

"I, uh, I said that after the…" He looks like he's sucking on a lemon. "After the funeral, that I'm going to go on a road trip with my brother."

"You know, Sammy, you can still go back. To Stanford."

He looks so sad. "It wouldn't…" He takes a deep breath, like he's trying to control himself. It's the worst when the tears come suddenly, when something reminds him of Jess. And I thought I had it mastered about what I should and shouldn't say around him, for that reason alone. "It just wouldn't be the same without Jessica there. I don't want to go back now."

This hurts. He wanted more than anything to go to college, and now he's just throwing it away. I try to ignore the small part of me that is happy about that. Because, we made a hell of a team. It's great that we'll be together again, back in action.

"Well, come on. Eat up." I throw a burger at him, hoping it will make him smile, hoping that will push him to do as I say and eat.

It doesn't.

* * *

_Day four. November 6__th__, 2005._

I pick up our suits, and the same guy is working. He tells me to tell my brother that he's sorry. I don't. I try not to say that all because that usually makes things so much worse.

We wear our nicer clothes with our dress pants. I don't understand exactly why they're having a wake, because Jessica's body was burned to ashes. But I guess it's for closure (is there really any possible way you could get closure out of this?).

There aren't many people here, just some of Jessica's family.

There's a poster with a bunch of different pictures with Jessica's face on them. In all of them she's smiling, and I can definitely see what Sam saw in her. There are even some with Sam in them. He looks happier than I've ever seen him. I hate knowing that I pulled him away from this life; that Dad tried to keep him away from this life.

Sam walks over to a woman slowly, and immediately, she pulls him in a hug. "Oh, Sam," she gasps out, and I can tell Sammy is trying not to cry.

"Mrs. Moore," Sam says, "this is my brother, Dean."

I shake Mrs. Moore's and Mr. Moore's hands but remain quiet. "Yes, I remember hearing about you," Mrs. Moore tells me with a smile, and I'm kind of touched that Sam mentioned me at all. I try my best to give a reassuring smile.

Sam talks to some of Jessica's family, which I wonder how well he knows them. How much of Jessica's family he has met. I wonder if Jessica has ever wanted to meet our family. I wonder what Sam has said to that.

Mrs. Moore asks Sam where he's living now, and he says with his brother. Which is technically not a lie if you think about it. But she offers her couch and tells him he's welcome to come over whenever he wants to.

I internally shake my head. We'll probably never see her again after the funeral.

I can tell that this is taking a toll on my brother. He's a brave son of a bitch, coming here. Facing Jessica's family because I know he thinks it's his fault all of this happened. He really lives with the guilt of the situation.

We don't stay long.

Actually, as we walk out of the funeral home I think we're both relieved as hell that it's over.

As soon as Sam gets to the Impala he starts to cry.

And I let him cry, and I don't say anything about it. He put on a brave face for them and I am proud of him for it. But he doesn't need to be strong now. Hell, I wanted to cry in there, too. I don't do well with the whole crying thing.

Sam is still in near self-destruct mode by the time we get to the motel but you can tell that he's trying not to be. He still doesn't sleep much, only rolls around in his bed, but at least now he's not constantly on the verge of tears.

I lay the suits on the bed for Sam to see. "Nice, aren't they?" They're like the ones we use when we're FBI agents, except these are nicer.

Sam smiles, halfheartedly. "Yeah…it…it reminds me of this one time. I was" - he breaks off as he starts to laugh, softly, mind you - "We were going to Jess's uncle's wedding. And I had to wear a suit like that. I remember she kept wanting to take pictures of me. She loved suits."

Jeez. Everything can make him think of her. But he's not getting all chick-flicky on me this time so I nod along.

He looks at me. "One of the worst things about it is that I don't have anymore pictures of her. They all burned up in the fire. What if I start to forget what she looks like?"

Oh, _God. _What do I say to this? What do I do to make it better? "You won't," I try to reassure him. "You wouldn't."

He seems to not be very convinced, but he nods like he understands anyway.

I can't help myself when I ask, "You okay?" I curse myself then and there for asking the stupidest questions. Of course he's not.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm fine. I'm fine."

He's not. He shouldn't be. The funeral is tomorrow.

* * *

_Day five. November 7__th__, 2005._

I wake up early. _Really _freaking early. Looking to my right, I see Sam is still sound asleep. Finally, like, _I'm really out of it _kind of sleep. When his eyes are closed, he doesn't show his panic, his anger, his grief, his need for revenge. But I know that's just an illusion to the storm brewing underneath.

I do something that may piss him off but ya know, I just don't really care.

I take his phone out of his duffel bag, slipping into the bathroom and turning the shower on so he doesn't overhear me talking.

I go through his contacts (Dad's number and mine are marked as Emergency numbers, I notice with a swell of pride, thankful he still had us in his phone in his time at Stanford) and click on the number marked "Mr. and Mrs. Moore" (oh, God, Jessica's number is still in his phone).

It's a woman who answers. "Hello? Sam?"

"Mrs. Moore?"

"Yes," she says, and she sounds obviously very sad. "Who is this?"

"Hi, Mrs. Moore," I start to say. "You, uh…don't know me very well, I'm Sam's older brother…"

"Oh, yes! We" - she sniffles as her voice breaks, and I hope I didn't make her start crying - "We saw you with Sam at the wake. Dan? Dean?"

"Dean." I am sort of shocked she even remembers me, she was so hooked on talking to Sam. "I was…I'm sorry to call you, especially with the funeral later today…but…" I pause. "Sam doesn't know I'm calling, but I was wondering if you could maybe, I don't know…bring some pictures with Jessica in them to the funeral and give them to us because all of Sam's are…gone now." I take a breath. "He doesn't have anymore pictures of her and he's pretty upset about that."

"Oh," she breathes over the line. "Oh, yes. Yes, dear. Of course I could do that. Jessica…she really loved Sam, you know."

"He loved her too." I sit down on the toilet seat, rubbing my face. "He loved her more than anyone. I can tell."

"How…how is he?"

I want to laugh. Her daughter just died and she's worrying about _Sam. _

"He's, uh…well, he's devastated, Mrs. Moore," I answer honestly.

"That poor boy. He's such a sweetie."

Wow, Sammy's got this woman eating out his hand and he isn't even the one talking to her. My brother, man. I shake my head with a half proud smile.

"Are _you_ okay, Mrs. Moore?"

"I'm okay," she replies. "Death is a part of life, and I believe Jessica is in a better place. So I'm happy."

_Oh, thank Christ_, I think, because, selfishly I didn't want to have her crying over the line. One distraught person is enough right now.

"You look after that brother of yours, dear."

"Always do," I say.

We exchange goodbyes, her telling me she'll see us soon.

I step in the shower for real, wishing all my problems would follow the hot water and go down the drain, too.

The suit fits well, and it's nicer than ones for the FBI. I feel like a major badass in it. Like I'm Batman, or something. But without all the stuff he wears. I change out of the suit and put on some regular clothes. I was planning on getting something to eat with Sam beforehand and I don't want to get something on the suit.

I wipe the layer of condensation off the screen of Sam's phone. Thankfully, he's not awake yet, so he's slept for quite a long time now. I guess all that lack of sleep has finally caught up to him.

I hate to wake him. "Sammy." I poke him. "Sam, wake up."

He groans but then remembers what day it is and shoots up out of bed faster than I thought was humanly possible. "What time is it?"

"Relax, man. The funeral isn't till eleven. It's only eight."

He rubs his face, obviously relieved. "I can't believe this happening today."

"I know."

"I can't believe it's happening at all." He sighs. "I just can't believe anything anymore."

I know exactly what he feels like.

"Everything…" He shakes his head. "Everything has just been happening so fast. But I know one thing. I gotta find Jessica's killer."

"I know," I repeat, probably sounding like a broken record right now. This is the most he's talked in days. There's a rage in me too. I want to find the thing that did this so bad it hurts. I hate what this thing has done to us.

"I'm sorry," Sammy says. "I'm sorry that I've been so…that you're always having to…"

"It's okay, Sammy," I tell him, knowing exactly what he means. "You're going through a hard time right now. You don't need to apologize."

"Thanks, Dean." He gets out of bed slowly. "We just really need to find Dad after this."

"And we will." He looks doubtful, so I repeat myself. "We will, Sam."

He nods gratefully, picks up some clothes, and goes into the bathroom.

I take Sam to this diner that I found, that's just around the corner from our motel room.

"I've heard this place has really good pancakes," I say, like this is supposed to make everything better for him, like this is supposed to erase all the tragedy in his life.

He nods, but I don't think he's really paying attention to me.

The waitress comes by our table. I order a stack of pancakes and some sausages, but Sam orders nothing. So I say to him, "Hey, man, come on. This whole starving yourself thing, it's not gonna happen." I turn to the waitress and add, "He'll have an omelet."

She scrawls on her little notepad quickly, saying, "Okay, comin' right up," and winks at both of us. I think Sam's too lost in thought to notice. He's a freaking zombie, man.

So we sit around and talk about movies just to be talking about something (I'm doing most of the talking) and he's picking at his omelet and I have devoured my pancakes. And the people were right. They really do have good pancakes.

We go back and change into our suits. Dressed in black, I feel like we're the Blues Brothers. Sam adjusts his red tie and we roll out.

At Sam's request, we stop at a small corner store and pick up some flowers. "She hated roses," he tells me. "So I got her these instead."

"I'm sure she would love them."

He ignores me again.

In church, I can't bring myself to pay attention to anything. I don't pay attention to the speeches, to the crying, to the music, or to the priests that say she's in a better place. Sam does, however, and he seems to be hanging onto every freaking word. He blinks rapidly and repeatedly. Friends sitting on the other side of him and behind him are rubbing his shoulders.

And then, Sam stands up. "What are you doing?" I whisper, but he just goes up anyway.

Oh, God, Sam's making a speech.

_When did he have time to write one? _

I don't want to pay attention to this either. It's so hard to watch him, obviously trying to keep the tears at bay, talking about how their friend Brady introduced them and how wonderful she was. "She was the greatest thing to happen to me at Stanford," he chokes.

_Fuck_. Man, I don't want to cry here. But I'm pretty damn close to it.

I feel water dripping on my face and I curse myself for being such a baby, goddamn it.

Sam sits back down and I pat him on the back. "That was good," I say.

"Thanks."

And the funeral ends, and the long drive to the cemetery awaits. The ride is silent but not uncomfortable, so I turn up some music. Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills" blares, mostly because it's rock and it's upbeat and it always puts me in a good mood when I'm sad. I'm gonna try to avoid the slow, sad, rock ballads for a while.

They bury an empty casket. Why, I don't know. But it's really not my place to judge, you see.

Friends of Sam are all over him, asking him if he's alright, how he's been. He puts on that brave front again. Just like he did at the wake. But he's so transparent, so easy to see through (maybe it's just an older brother power), I can see that he's still so upset. He's so unconvincing in his little act, it'd be funny if it weren't so tragic.

People corner me, too.

"Oh, so you're Sam's brother!" a cute little brunette girl says. "We were starting to think Sam was just making you up."

I smile charmingly at her. "I'm the one and only."

Sam sidles up to us. "Hi, Angie," he greets.

"Sam!" She hugs him. "Oh, how are you?"

"I'm okay," he lies. He's had to say that so many times now.

"Where are you living now?" another guy asks. He's shaped like a cube and is blond. He stands awkwardly in his blue, striped suit.

"I'm with my brother. Dean," he says, pointing his thumb towards me. "We're gonna go on a road trip. I think I need a break from…ya know. I mean, after everything."

"It's understandable, Sam," the brunette girl, Angie, tells him. Her lips form some kind of pout as she watches Sam. "We'll have to talk sometime."

Sam nods and makes an attempt to smile, and I just really want to get out of here now.

Mrs. Moore strides over to us, a small book in her hand. "Sam, Dean," she greets.

"Hi," I say brightly, trying to grin.

"Here, Sam, I want you to have these." She hands him the book she cradled. She stands on her tiptoes to whisper in Sam's ear. I don't hear it, and I don't really care.

He looks at the book, and his eyes are swimming. He's smiling, though. It's a photo album. "Thank you," he tells her. "Thank you."

Sam finally is the one to want to go. After all the cajoling from his friends, the constant naggings of "Come on, Sam, let's go get a beer together!" and "Sam, come on! Stay here, we can catch up," (because you dipshits didn't just see each other a few days ago at Stanford, I think. It's not like you guys haven't seen each other in years) he's finally wanting to go. He's probably wanted to leave the second he got here. And I get it.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam eventually says.

"For what?"

He smiles. "Mrs. Moore told me you called her. Thank you so much, man."

"Not a problem," I say, and then add: "I didn't want you whining over some pictures." But there's no heat to my words, so he knows I'm kidding, knows that I would never say something like that in real life.

"Whatever, jerk."

I laugh. "Bitch."

* * *

_Day six. November 8, 2005._

"Let's go to Blackwater Ridge," Sammy says with the closest he's come to a smile in days. "We need to find Dad. We need to find what did this."

I like the confidence in his voice. It makes me feel more confident, too, like if I close my eyes I could pretend like I actually know what I'm doing. But really, as long as my brother's by my side I don't care how lost we are.

"Sounds like a plan."

So, we pile in the car, get our belongings, and put Palo Alto in the rear-view mirror.

* * *

Please review! Thank you for reading! xxx

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